


Yay for our side!

by huntingosprey



Series: JWP2014 [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntingosprey/pseuds/huntingosprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deeper look at the Anthea/Sebastian/John dynamic using some of the practice prompts from this years July Writing Month.</p><p>Danger, intrigue, apparent life or death struggles and tea, life as normal for these three really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The mysterious message

_Snap, snapsnap, snap, clap_

 

John stopped in the doorway taking in the sight of Sherlock sat at the kitchen table a sheet of paper in front of him and John's phone in his hand, he was making marks on the paper at every snap and clap that came from John's phone a look of intense concentration on his face.

"Er Sherlock." John began only to be halted by a imperiously upraised hand,  _right working silence._

John gave up on getting an answer from Sherlock and turned to putting the kettle on, he was going to need a very strong tea this morning.

_snapsnapsnap, snap, clap, clap_

"We have no case, and as messages go this is obscure in the extreme." Sherlock mused sitting back eyes still on the paper "John, why would an unknown man and woman ring your phone at two in the morning to snap their fingers and clap for one minute and seven seconds?"

John shrugged, back still to Sherlock as he fished out the tea bag. "Not a clue, sure it's not connected with the last case?" He indicated the wall where the remains where posted up, including a very elegant cipher.

"No, aural not written, not based on a consistent time signature and two different people set the message." Sherlock countered "unconnected except by the timing." He fixed John with an assessing look "Can you decipher it?"

"Me?" John gave his best 'idiot me' look 

"It was sent to you." Sherlock pointed out "At least listen to it." and with no further words he played the message.

John felt the bottom drop out of the world but struggled to keep a bland face, above all Sherlock must not learn the content of the message, the results would be disastrous.

"Not a clue." He said in a level voice "Not enough information to break it?"

"No, not yet." Sherlock seemed disgusted with himself "If you get any more."

"I'll let you know" John smiled outwardly, silently he added  _when hell freezes over_ .

Doggedly he went about his morning routine before leaving the flat for the surgery, "Paper work Sherlock, mounts up every time there's a new government initiative. If Mycroft could get them to lay off for a bit until we're all square it's be a blessing."

Sherlock's snort had been comment enough on that but John was great full to get off so lightly, he turned into Baker street station by the Jubilee and Bakerloo line entrance before emerging again from the Metropolitan exit around the corner and out of sight of 221B and was unsurprised to find a black car waiting for him at the bus stop. Bracing himself for anything he slid in and the car rolled away.


	2. Action!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sebastian have fun (sort of) showing off their fisticuffs and a hint of the messages content is revealed.

"This is ridiculous!"

"You wanna go for the alternative?"

"Well no, but even so."

"Then don't get your stethoscope in a twist. How long have we got?"

"Another five minutes, providing she doesn't let us down."

"And how often has that happened?"

"Well there was that time under Vaxhuall bridge."

"Yeah OK give you that."

"As plots to get rid of Sherlock go this is one of the better ones Sebastian, give Jim points for trying."

"He hasn't thought it through though. What's he gonna do for entertainment if he does kill Holmes eh? No one else to challenge him out there."

"True enough I suppose. Look sharp they're ahead of schedule."

"Bloody typical, all right remember the script make it look good."

They burst from cover, Moran in the lead by two paces and hurtled across Sherlock and Lestrade's startled line of sight before Moran spun and slammed his fist into John's solar plexus. John went down with a silent gasp a hand flung out desperately to grab at Moran's clothing dragging them both to the floor.

Moran kicked out knocking John away and scrambling to his knees reached for a gun inside his coat, John rolled saw the gun and with surgical precision tossed a glass paperweight, brought from the museum shop for the purpose, at Moran's hand knocking the gun away before lunging at his opponent again.

Moran threw himself sideways out of John's grasp and both men staggered to their feet heaving in breath for a second before Moran, apparently catching sight of Sherlock and Greg snapped a flurry of fast punches at John which drove him back a step before turning once again to run.

John darted forward and tackled Moran to the ground where they grappled for a moment, rolling across the slick marble floor limbs flailing in a very dramatic but ineffective way.

"Stairs." John hissed in Moran's ear.

"Got it, take another roll then toss me" Moran muttered as he pulled a punch to John's wounded shoulder.

Giving a muffled scream at the contact John hoisted Moran over towards the stairs only to have the other man use his greater mass to roll them both over so he ended up on top of the struggle. Checking the distance John twisted his legs up into Moran and heaved flipping him over John's head and down the stairs.

John heaved himself up on to one knee looking over the lip of the stairs when the already dim light went out completely and a gunshot echoed in the darkness.


	3. The grand tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travel may broaden the mind, but it doesn't mean you have to leave home and when you're desperately searching for someone lost the glories of past civilisations aren't always welcome.
> 
> For practice prompt #10: **The Grand Tour.** I think I bent this one rather a lot!

"John!" Greg shouted shuffling towards the spot where he'd last seen John.

There was the steady click, click of someone walking in high heels before a shaft of light pierced the gloom dazzling both detectives

"Mr Holmes, Inspector Lestrade." Anthea’s cool voice echoed in the darkness, "I'd stand still if I were you Inspector; you don't want to fall down the stairs and break anything."

Sherlock frowned, "What are you doing here?"

"The same as John," Anthea answered calmly "attempting to thwart whatever scheme has Moran breaking and entering the British Museum."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Breaking and entering? Rather, plebeian for the Colonel is it?"

The dim emergency lights flickered on giving just enough illumination for Sherlock to see Anthea shrug, “From the smallest seed grows the largest tree.”

“Very philosophical,” Greg grumbled “just in case you two have been too wrapped up navel gazing to notice John’s missing.”

Sherlock and Anthea looked past him to the spot where John had been, Anthea played her torch over the marble floor catching in its beam tell-tale splotches of wet redness. Stalking over to the lip of the staircase Sherlock stared down silently praying he wouldn't see the bloody and unmoving body of his friend at the bottom of the flight.

“Christ, he must have the night vision of a cat.” Greg breathed in relief when Anthea’s torch revealed nothing more than an irregular trail of blood drops.

Without comment the three of them followed the trail into the galleries. Tracking the blood trail as it glinted on the floor or was smudged against glass they worked their way through the history of medieval Europe, examining each case to traces of their quarries passage or, hoping never to find it, the body of John Watson.

“How much of the place is there?” Greg demanded as the entered the fifth room, “A man could get lost and spend his whole life in here.”

“Many have Inspector.” Anthea replied, “Travel may broaden the mind but it brings with it many dangers and inconveniences. Safer, if you must travel the world, to do it without leaving home.”

Sherlock suppressed a shiver at the memory of some of the things his own travels had brought with them. There was the sound of another gunshot and shattering glass ahead of them, the ran leaving behind the wonders of the past for the pressing concerns of the present.


	4. Cliffhanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Points a tags* If you were wondering, this is where that warning kicks in. 
> 
> John and Moran conclude their 'discussion'. Sherlock is left with a fistful of empty air.

Sherlock charged out of the gallery into the open space in the center of the museum a thousand thoughts flashing across his mind. Ruthlessly shoving them all aside he concentrated on the problem at hand, namely stopping Moran from either escaping or, much worse, killing John.

He skidded to a halt, aware of Lestrade and Anthea rushing out into the relative brightness of the glass roofed courtyard. The three of them cast about seeking some indication of where Moran and John had gone.

"Christ!" Greg exclaimed face pale in the moonlight.

Sherlock looked and swallowed hard. The museum was clearly having work done to the roof of the reading room as scaffolding was erected like a halo around the central buildings roof connected by a series of plank walkways to the topmost galleries. On one of these plank walkways, wide enough for only one man to stand were John and Moran, John was obviously trying to talk Moran into giving up although their voices were soft enough not to carry.

Greg started to sprint round to the next nearest walkway hoping to cut off Moran's escape when with an outraged snarl Moran swung a heavy looking cloth bag at John's head.

John taken by surprise didn't duck the blow and he staggered under the impact, the cloth split and out tumbled a flood of bright silver discs which sprayed out over the sides of the walkway to tumble to the floor.

Greg shouted a warning as Sherlock bolted onto the walk way eyes fixed on the pair ahead of him as Moran, taking advantage of the distraction, tipped John over the side and sent him following the rain of silver coins to the unforgiving marble floor below.

Sherlock lunged desperately forward but his hand just brushed Johns finger tips and closed helpless around thin air.


	5. The stirless air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the museum fall Anthea and Moran sit and listen to John breath, and reflect on how essential they've become to each other in this mad dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks sheepish* This one got rather heavy and angsty as well as taking ages to come together.   
> Written for practice prompt 8: I BREATHED enough to learn the trick. by Emily Dickinson

(Anthea)

 I've sat beside more than one possible death bed before now, but this one, this one I am more than partly responsible for. It is never supposed to come to this, never to this. Plans of course never survive contact with the enemy but we had been so close to pulling it off without to much damage to any.

_Hiss, click, hiss, click_

The sound of a machine doing the work of muscles and sinew forcing air into still lungs simulating the act of breathing. it feels as if that machine is breathing for three of us, forcing air into lungs to stunned by events to work.

The hand under mind is as cold as a new corpse but the pulse under my fingers beats steady and sure, a fragile lie to the appearance of a dead man that greets every new person who walks through the door. I am stealing time with this man who has become a third of my soul, Sherlock will soon wake in the other bed and resume his pained hovering over the bed I have had a hand in bring John to. 

That fragile pulse, beating in defiance of events tethers us together more strongly than any spoken vow or common cause. We betray and support each other in equal measure in our endless dance around the three men who are so cleaver and yet so blind to the truth that is under their noses. But for now our lungs are moved only by the steady working of that machine.

oOo

 (Moran)

  _Hiss, click, hiss, click_

The sound of the ventilator crackling over the radio is the only noise in this room and the only occupant is still in his chair. Head tilted back to expose his throat eyes shuts listening to the sound of a machine breathing for three people two of whom aren't here.

That sound is his lifeline, just as surely as it is John's. Right now it's doing a better job than the harness that failed them both so badly at the museum, he remembers looking back from the crest of the roof to see John reach out to grab the rope left dangling under the walkways. The flying harness he'd helped John into was supposed to arrest his fall enough so that he could grab a rope and haul himself back up to the walkway. But the transparent webbing had snapped and John had pitched forward and tangled himself in the walkway's structure before the whole thing had cantilevered down dropping the broken and bleeding body under it a few feet to the floor.

Sherlock had slithered from his spot desperately gripping onto one of the scaffold poles to land beside John shielding him from the rest of the debris as it came down. Anthea had summoned medical aid the second John had pinwheeled into the steel and knowing he was a liability he'd fled.

Fled to this airless room to wait and listen as a machine far away breathed for the three of them.


End file.
